It’s okay to be a cupcake

My Tuesday morning FB page began with a trickle of “Oh, noes! It’s waining!” and crescendoed into a flood of “Sleepin’ in, hot coffee and cuddles with babes!” as one after another the soft men and women of the South Bay elected wussdom over pointless suffering and bronchitis.

The folks coming from the West Side, where it was dry, weren’t expecting the eventual wet roads and light drizzle, i.e. they were expecting the usual wheelsuck in an 80-man field where they could tweedle, twaddle, and watch others Go To The Front while they caught up on little league scores. Unhappily for them, the pack would be tiny and the roads therefore windy, because most of the South Bay contingent had opted for, in the words of Prez, “Hot white chocolate mocha with my sweetie and to celebrate the completion of our new kitchen.”

Can’t make that shit up.

So the Westsiders met up with a greatly diminished group, which meant a total field of no more than forty. In other words…nowhere to hide! No big, fat, soft, loving envelope of suckage. To make matters worse, we had a cameo appearance by none other than MMX, up from the wilds of San Diego with his North County dickstomping boots. To make matters worster, Backpack Eric a/k/a Motorhead also showed, fresh from a brace of Cat 3 wins at Sea Otter and Chuck Pontius.

Show me your dick. There. Now it’s broken.

MMX’s first order of business as we drilled it along Pershing was to go down the line and break a bunch of dicks. Then, Motorhead ran over what was left of the bleeding ballsacks, so that by the time we hit Westchester there were only six people left, including the day’s Purple Freddy Freeloader, a Sho-Air Wanker on a black Specialized Rouwank with an electric orange stripe.

I found my way to the front once or twice and stepped on the few dicks that were still squirming around on the shoulder after having been badly broken by MMX and Motorhead. Every time the wankers sat up to catch their breath (which had escaped long ago, barn door still wide open), MMX and Motorhead would string them out into a gnarly, nasty, filth-encrusted, single file line of snotty faces washed by rooster tails and spattered with broken dreams.

The freeloaders were learning that it’s a whole different deal without a big fat, cozy envelope to drag you along, and even harder when every few seconds or so someone’s breaking your dick again. By lap four people were gassed beyond repair, with endless, extra hard efforts having been taken by USC John, and a pair of hard pulls by Freeman. MMX and Motorhead lit it up on the final bump, and it was like that moment in the kitchen when the whole fucking pan of Jiffy Pop goes off at once, kernels flying and jumping and burning and charring to a fare thee well.

I’ve never seen so many mucosal faces at the end of a ride, as the survivors’ chins dripped sheets of snot mixed with bubbling spit and chunks of road tar. It was such a pretty, happy sight that MMX and I celebrated with a nice hot cup of coffee and oatmeal at CotKU back in Manhattan Beach, after scraping all the broken dicks off the bottom of our stomp boots.

Awards

Yellow jersey: Freeloader wanker Sho-Air dude, who never did shit the entire ride, tried to sneak away on the last climb to the bridge, got caught, refused to pull through in our three-man break, and sprunted for the vee. You’re half the age of the dudes you’re sprunting against. Have you no self-respect? Do you think no one notices? Racing is about winning. Training ride NPR bullshit is about doing your share, sharpening your game, and earning the respect of the people you ride with…then winning if you’ve still got the legs. If we wanted another wheelsuck to wait ’til the finish after doing nothing the entire ride, we’d have airlifted in Prez. You’re the winner, but you’re a wanker!

Hardman: Motorhead. His first pull off the overpass broke so many dicks that the dickwagon got overloaded and had to make a run to the dump, empty the bed, and come back for more. Motorhead delivered repeated dickbreaking smackdowns, and terminated with an honorable second place finish behind purple Sho-Air wanker. Motorhead is a joy to watch. Hits the front with Hair-like viciousness, holds it forever, makes every pull so nasty and unpleasant that you hate his fucking guts. His only plan on the NPR is to go so hard that he can’t go any harder, then recover and do it again or get dropped. He never gets dropped and he’s always got an ugly kick at the end. What’s so hard about this formula, wankers? Be like Motorhead. Go To The Front! [Note: USC John Tomlinson dished out mega dickstompings the entire ride, as per, then showed up at TELO and stomped the shit out of whatever dicks hadn’t shown up to be stomped for NPR. You got a hardman award coming your way, sonny.]

Purple Freddy Freeloader: Sho-Air dude. Does your team know that you do this shit? When Charon raced for Sho-Air, I never saw him pull any of that crap. In a race, it’s smart and savvy. On a training ride at the Parkway, it’s lame.

Alternate Purple Freddy Freeloader: Hairy-legged wanker in the powder-puff blue “Strachimachi Racing” jersey. What the fuck is a “Strachimachi”? A scented douche? Sat like a sinker on a trotline for four laps, then glued up to MMX, who was on Motorhead. Motorhead lines it out at 40 mph, MMX follows through with the dickstomp of death, and Strachiwhacky gaps out, his head drooping, his legs shuddering, his shoulders heaving, his dick breaking, and the engine mechanics throwing their entire toolbox in the dumpster as he swings over for me to close the gap. “That’s so lame, dude,” I say. “Hunh?” he answers. “I was making space for you to come by.” Nice. Making space for me to come by…and close the other space that you made.

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§ 8 Responses to It’s okay to be a cupcake

40 riders and no place to hide? Saturday group ride here we’re lucky to have 20, and 15 of them manage to never find the front. So, we thwack them until comments like “is that you trying to kill me?” or “I fucking hate you today” come out of their frothing mouths…then we thwack them some more.

In other notes, you’re fucking spoiling us lately. Woe is tomorrow when there isn’t a new post to read. Also, I fucking list after those BWR jerseys. Not the purple one, I hate purple. Reminds me of my mother in that bathing suit she used to wear…

Send me your mailing address and I’ll get you a few SPY purple cards. Show them the card, which means “Go To The Front,” and if they refuse, berate them until they take a pull. Fucknuts like that will ruin a ride.

The hard men of the day are a) the guy who tries to ride away, but blows up after 25 seconds and b) the guy who tries to sprint, but can’t hold onto the wheel in front of him, plus, presumably, the author, who’s apparently 52 but has yet to shake his prepubescent obsession with his own genitals. If he can stop thinking about dicks for 10 seconds, I would submit that next time he organizes a group of hard-ons to chase down a single fred, he should leave something in the tank for when the catch is actually made. Of course if he did, he’d have run out of road. Guess it’s just a lose-lose.